Twist
by CaliforniaDreamer
Summary: Literati. Rory and Jess in a nutshell. Being together, it's so hard. But they try. It's just so hard to leave, even harder to stay.
1. She had a history of killing herself

**Disclaimer: Don't own Gilmore Girls. I'm just a very bored little girl. All chapter titles from Dashboard Confessional**

**AN: Big thanks to Michelle for assuring me it doesn't completely suck. Expect...5ish chapters out of this one.**

**Twist **

**Pt. One—She had a history of killing herself**

A box is a very defined object. It's always going to have six faces. Top, bottom, sides. Never varies, always reliable. Albeit, redundant.

A box is very confined. Rigid. It cannot be expanded, made to fit any other form. You've got four walls, a ceiling, a floor, and that's all you get. No changing, no going back. That's all you get, stay inside it.

Her life has become a box. It is a box, and she wants to scream, because its walls can close in as much as they cannot expand. Now, she is suffocating within the routine she chose. The routine where logic overrules all, sensibility is a most treasured quality.

Damn logic. Damn sensibility. They are driving her crazy, or perhaps she is already there, but she can't tell. These walls, they're closing in, and she can't see a thing. She thinks she maybe claustrophobic, but she's never been too fond of space either. (Gaps, they scare her. The further people get, it's more likely she'll lose them.)

Things didn't have to be like this, and she knows. She sure as hell knows it, and it makes her sick. She hates herself; she hates the repetition she lives in. She tries to hate him, but it's too hard. But she tries, and she wants to hate him.

Instead, she thinks she may love him.

And that is bad, so very bad. Worse than suffocating in the walls of repetition. Not only does she want, she desires, she loves, she needs. (She does need him, though it doesn't appear so. She desperately wishes that everything could be, as it seems.)

But she can't have him.

_She said no._

It's over and done with, close all the doors (slam them shut) there's no going back.

There's no use crying over spilt milk. Rather, a relationship turned sour too soon before its expiration date. It's over now, dwelling won't fix things.

But she wants, aches, to fix things.

Her throat is burning now, she can't breathe, and she can't even tell if her damn feet are touching the ground. She might be crazy, no, she's sure she is. She keeps on loving, after telling (demanding) him to let go.

Crazy. What does that make him?

She doesn't know. She thinks for a second that maybe she doesn't care, but that can't be right, because the burning's started up again, flooding her throat. She's gotten caught up in that game of pretend again. She's gotten quite good at it, and it's quite a shame, because she used to be such a smart girl.

She's just going through the motions now. She doesn't even know who this creature called 'Rory' is anymore. That girl is so fake to her, sneaking around, sleeping with married men. (Man, she corrects herself automatically. There was only one, but that doesn't make it any better.)

But the pressure's building up, and reality's caving in on her. She's being crushed, and she doesn't want to scream, but she thinks she needs to, or else she'll never get out.

Her throat is swelling, and the only noise that would possibly come out is a faint "Jess".

She expects the word to taste like poison on her lips, but it is surprisingly sweet, and she craves to taste more of it.

But she can't because she said no. (She hates that word now.) She screwed up, and she has to learn from her mistakes. Grow up.

She doesn't want to grow up, she wants to be happy. She wants to be with Jess. She wants too much.

She's dying in this reality. Everybody has his or her expectations. Go to Yale. Have a perfect boyfriend, perfect friends. Everything had to be so freaking perfect!

She just wants to be able to screw up. But she can't, and she brought this all upon herself.

How hard could it have been to say yes? Very hard, that's for sure.

But had to have been easier than saying no. Watching his face, feeling her heart sink down, lower and lower.

She felt like such a bitch that night. And maybe she was. Just a selfish little Yalie rich-bitch. She sure felt like it.

She wants to breathe, needs to get out of this place, a fancied up prison.

So she does. She gets in her car and drives. She doesn't really know where she's going to end up, but it doesn't really matter. Just as long as nobody knows her there.

So she gets there. (Wherever there is. Some little restaurant on the side of the road in New York. Far away from New Haven, and that's all that matters.)

Of course, he's there. Wonderful. Why couldn't fate leave her alone, pick on someone it's own size? Damn it, damn him.

A part of her is ecstatic, and wonderfully naive. How cute, she actually thinks he'll take her back. Right.

She does her best to avoid him, but knows she won't be able to keep it up for long. Something's screaming inside her, wanting to run into his arms. But she can't do that, and she knows it.

They make eye contact, eventually. Blissful, awkward, painful. There's a flutter in her stomach, and she's not sure if it's good or bad. He turns away, but looks back over his shoulder directly at her before disappearing out a side door.

She decides to follow him, against her better judgment. He looked good. His hair was a mess, his eyes had a worn look, but he still looked good.

They talked a bit. She can't really remember the words; she doesn't think she comprehended them at the time. She's sure some kind of awkward greeting was exchanged. Next thing she knows, she's falling into him, kissing him, just because she felt like it. (So nostalgic of her, really.) He's pushing her away, but she refuses, and eventually, he gives in to her. She always had that effect on him.

The box is lifted over her head now. She is free and she can breathe. She needed this, needed him. Running her fingers through her hair, tasting the cigarette smoke lingering in his mouth, she loves it. She knows she can't have it completely though, and that's her fault. She knows she's just going to get hurt again, and that's her fault too.

She doesn't really care, because she was going insane. She was going insane, and she needed him.

Right now, it was okay. She'd feel like hell later, but she was tired of 'later'. She'd worry about it then.

She pressed him closer to her, kissing him deeper.

Searching, wanting, needing.


	2. He had a habit of dying

**Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls; I'm just an extremely bored little girl. All chapter titles are by Dashboard Confessional.**

**Pt. 2—He had a habit of dying...**

The room is smoke filled, but he doesn't care. The girl is faceless, but he doesn't care.

That's been the epitome of his existence, it seems. He doesn't care. And that makes all the difference.

He has learned that caring only hurts, and when it hurts, it hurts damn bad.

He's so tired of being hurt. But he doesn't have to be anymore, because he doesn't care, and he's numb, so numb. The world is a blur, and he can't feel a thing, but for now, it's so much better than feeling.

He's half living, but it's better than letting her kill him slowly.

He's still drowning, but he doesn't have to feel. He can pretend it's okay, move on with his life (half life). She's still pulling him under, but he can forget about it, because the alcohol blurs all his thoughts, if only temporarily. And when it fades, the hangover's there, and that in itself can keep his thoughts cleared.

So he's here, with a random girl. He's not sure he remembers her name, but that's okay, because he doesn't think he told her his.

He buries his head into her neck, kissing it passionately, because it's the only way he knows how. She pulls his lips back towards her, and he's slipping his hand underneath her shirt. The shirt is too thin, too low cut, just too much. But it doesn't matter, because it elicits a small moan in the back of her throat.

This he can do. The physical part. He's no good with emotions, they just tangle in on themselves, and then he never knows what to do. No, best to stick with being physical. It doesn't have to mean anything, and it doesn't make him feel like he's dying slowly.

He does the only he knows how. Gets drunk, sleeps with the random girl. He doesn't feel a thing though, and he's so damn glad, because frankly, feeling is overrated.

But if he drops the act for one second, he falls down so damn fast, and he remembers why he decided to stop feeling in the first.

In those moments, he wonders how it would have been if he hadn't been so bad at emotions. And it kills him, it kills him because he already knows he's wrong, and he's so tired of being wrong, it makes him sick.

And he's picturing _her_. Her making him feel, and want, need, desire. Telling him that he's worth something.

But that's such bull. She would never say that, because it's not true. He's worth shit, it seems like she's noticed that too, because she's not here right now, is she?

He's supposed to be okay, moving on. He told Luke he was going to be okay, that he _was_ okay. And he is, he supposes, because he's numb, and nothing matters. He's floating through the days, but it's okay, because he's making it through, and he's alive.

He thinks everyday he gets through is a day he didn't let her win. He likes to think it makes him stronger, but it doesn't. He weakens and weakens. Everyday, he fades a bit. He's not himself anymore; he doesn't know who he was in the first place. As far as he can remember, everything's always been an act, except with Rory, and he's not even sure if he was real there, either.

Real implies a feeling of some sort. (Love, that's what they call it.) He thinks he may have loved her, he says he did. He says, therefore, he must. No, that's thinking. He doesn't know what he thinks anymore, mainly because he tries not to.

He's touching now. It isn't a gentle, tender motion; it is what it is, and it is purely physical. Skin upon skin; don't try to make it complicated. He doesn't want it to be anything more, because this is one thing he can actually comprehend.

Everyone's always thought of him as a physical person, only after one thing. He's proved them right about everything else, why stop now?

It's easy to get lost in skin, because you don't have to make anything of it. They only thing you can feel is flesh, nothing to it.

This girl's skin is soft. It's too soft for him, if you want to know the truth. His own hands are chapped, the skin even broken a bit, calloused, feels like sandpaper. But her hands are baby ass soft, softer. He feels velvet when he touches her, and he's almost afraid it'll melt beneath his fingers, it's so damn soft. Who has hands that soft? Nobody. It's not right, not right.

He's crazy, he knows he is.

He's a crazy, sick bastard. Can't even face his own thoughts.

He kisses her neck anyways, even though it's too damn soft to be right, and buries his head into her shoulder. He moans a name, and he knows it can't be this girl's, so it must be _hers_. He can't really make out his own voice, he's so damn detached, but it has to have been hers. He hopes it's not, because he's sworn he's over it, but he knows he's not, even though he's sure he knows nothing.

He doesn't know what to think anymore, and it's killing him. She's killing him, but he won't admit it because she doesn't exist, he won't admit that either.

If she existed, he'd be pining, and he's Jess –freaking- Mariano. He doesn't pine, doesn't know how.

There's that word again, know. That's what it all came down to, knowing. Well, he doesn't know, and he likes to think he doesn't care, but the whole damn concept is driving him crazy, and he just can't stand it anymore.

So he leaves, gets out.

He leaves this faceless girl, lying down on some random mattress. Her bleached blonde hair is tangled, and her bra's half undone, but he doesn't care. Her face is bewildered, and he can't find his belt, but he has to get out of here.

So he does.

He walks around a bit, gets to breathe. But he's not really breathing. This air is stale, smoky. He's grown up with it, so he should be used to it, but something, somewhere inside him thinks that maybe he doesn't have to settle.

He wanders aimlessly (truly aimlessly, because you can't have an aim if you don't have a direction) and his head begins to pound more and more with each step.

He wanted to get out, but he can't. He's trapped here, and he'd give anything to get out, but he doesn't have a damn thing. He didn't choose this, or maybe he did, but he didn't mean to! That's the thing about downward spirals, they don't end, you just go further and further down until nobody can see you, or cares to see you.

He glances at his watch, realizing he's got to go to work. It's part of the monotony he lives in.

He enters the restaurant, and it's smoky to. All this smoke, he just wants to get away from it, but he can't.

He busses the tables, going back and forth between the kitchen and the main room. Everything is blissfully normal and mind numbing.

Of course, _she _walks in. Of course it would happen when he's found contentment in fading away, being barely alive, if it meant not having to think of her.

She walks in, and he's crashing back to reality so fast, and hurts so damn hard to land. He's fully alive now, or maybe dead, he can't tell because she's here, and nothing, everything matters now.

He wants to ignore her. He wants to sting her hard, make her hurt. Have her spend weeks trying to live a half –life.

Instead, he's making eye contact, silently telling her to follow him outside.

So damn stupid, but you can't blame him. He's suffering from a blast of reality, and nothing ever seems real then.

She's lost her mind, she must have. She mumbles a greeting (he can't make out words, his mind is swimming now, after so much time of neglecting thoughts) and suddenly, she's kissing him, and he tries to push her away, because he doesn't want to, really.

He remembers the last time she kissed him spontaneously like this, their first kiss. She missed him, she said. Welcome back, she had said.

He knows this can't mean the same, but he needs to think it does.

They finally break the kiss, and he pulls her close. She's sobbing now, and he makes out an 'I'm sorry'. He rubs circles on her back, telling her its okay, even though it's not. It's what she needs to hear, and what he needs to say.

He holds her tighter (he's not sure why she's here, but she is, and he's going to make the best of the time he has before she comes to her senses). He's leading her down the street, to his apartment.

They've got so much to sort out, but he knows they won't. He knows this won't last. They've had their chances, but he's so damn low right now, he'll take what he can get.

Her skin is soft, but not too soft, he can feel dry patches underneath his fingertips. He touches her, and it tingles. It's skin upon skin, but there's something else there (and he knows it's his imagination, that skin doesn't evoke feelings like that, but he doesn't care).

He's got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that this won't end well at all, but she's kissing him again, the tears are still coming down her cheeks, and he thinks he doesn't care, because she's here, with him, and this moment is worth it.

He hopes it's worth it, and he's not one for hoping.


	3. She gave him something to live for

**Disclaimer: Don't own it. Dashboard Confessional owns the chapter titles.**

**AN: I'm not really good with these kind of scenes...sorry if it seems weird. And...'they have a past, who doesn't' belongs to Hellie, cause she said it first, lol.**

**For Meg, cause she's the birfday girl. And she rocks. **

_pt. 3--She gave him something to live for._

He didn't know what he was doing.

Not uncommon with him, but he was losing control. He always lost control, especially with her, she made his head spin, and his hands wander, but he wasn't supposed to lose control. Be gentle.

Gentle. What was gentle? Handling with care. Well, he certainly cared about her, that was the whole damn problem! He cared, and it hurt like hell, but at the same time, it didn't matter, because he likes it (he likes it!) and he's holding on to her for dear life, he doesn't want this feeling to go away. (But it hurts so damn much!) Maybe he's just a sick, sadistic bastard. Maybe he's in love.

Maybe? He knows he is. He also knows she probably doesn't give a damn about him, but she's here, whispering false promises in his ear. (Funny how the tables turn.) This love, it hurts like a bitch, and he thinks he may be sick, but that hardly matters, does it?

At least when he hurts, he knows he's living, which is so much better than being half dead. He makes a note to thank her for that later, and he mentally smirks, thinking of ways he could show her his gratitude. But this is not a laughing matter. He can't do...that with her. That's the forbidden, the uncharted territory (and he's no Columbus). She's Rory and he's Jess. Two different worlds, they weren't meant to collide. (But they did, and that's Liz's fault. As long as he has someone else to blame, he'll be fine.)

But they're in his apartment now, still kissing. (Her kisses are searching, wanting; his are desperate, needing.) He's so afraid he'll go to far, he's been walking on eggshells ever since he met her. He longed to tell her that those kisses were nothing, passion he could show her. He was so afraid it would be love that he couldn't give her.

But he loved, so hard it hurt, but it only hurts to fall, and with her, he was always falling.

He wasn't good enough. He knew that, she knew that, the whole damn world knew that. But he likes to think it doesn't matter, because he's getting lost in a sea of brown locks, and he lost himself somewhere between the sidewalk and his floor.

She's more mature now, he's noticed. She's a woman, and she knows what she's doing. She kisses him tenderly, intensifing the kiss as she goes along, trailing her fingers along his neck, and damn, it's sending chills down his spine. She's trying to be seductive, and she's kitting the nail on the head, because he can't breathe anymore, and if he had it his way, he wouldn't, because he thinks that maybe this is better.

They're lying on his mattress now, and he's relieved beyond belief that he got his own place, or for that matter, changed the sheets this morning. She wasn't a random girl. She may not be here in the morning, but she's not a random girl, and he's not going to screw up this chance. It might be the last one he gets. He knows he doesn't deserve it.

He thinks that maybe they should talk. They've got so much behind them (and so little ahead), so much of a past. It would be the right thing to do. But he's on top of her, and she's taking off his shirt, and he doesn't think that he could form the words.

So they have a past. Who doesn't?

Talking was so overrated anyways. They could never solve anything by it. No, better to feel this high now, and drop down low later.

She's gotten his shirt completely unbuttoned now, and he pulls his arms back, letting it fall onto the floor. He helps her get her own shirt off, but she's wearing layers, and it's getting tangled. She giggles slightly and snuggles her face into his neck as soon as the fabric slips over her head. He is slightly surprised, he thought that such a pause in the routine would have given her too much time to think, too much time to get out. He'd like to think she was sure about doing this with him, that she wanted him, it, but he mustn't get his hopes up, because that's just not what he does.

He undoes her bra, and she takes off his pants. Soon enough, they're naked. Naked. There's nothing here but skin and sheets, and he's gone completely under now. There's nothing but white, brown, and blue, and his head is spinning. These sheets, they're tangled, and she's tangled, he's tangled. It's all a mess, and he's head is pounding. He feels covered in sin (like he's never done this before), because this feels so wrong. He wasn't supposed to be with her (no matter what he says), and he certainly wasn't supposed to be _with_ her. He's crossed a line here, and it's so damn dangerous on the other side.

But it can't be that wrong. It can't be right, but it can't be that wrong, because she came to him, and she hasn't run yet. (she will in the morning, no doubt, but he's okay with that; or he will be.) He loves her and she...loves him? She hasn't said it, and he doesn't expect her to, but he likes to imagine she has.

And he's so damn happy.

No, that's not the word. He can't be happy, because he knows this is temporary. But it's a temporary high, and even though he'll just fall hard, he likes being like this, with her. He likes it. Maybe that's why it's so wrong. He's taking pleasure in the forbidden.

He's loving her like he's never loved before (it's cliche, but true; he never has loved before). He's had sex, but he's never made love. And he's glad it's with her, because he can't imagine anyone else making him love them.

It's over, and she's retrieved the sheets, which had fallen to the side of the bed. She pulls them around her with a shy smile, and he gives her a smirk. She rests her head against his shoulder, and closes her eyes, letting out a sigh.. He kisses the top of her head gently. He doesn't know what to say, and doesn't really want to talk. He just wants to lie here, with her, trying to fathom that this really happened.

He looks at her, and she's so damn beautiful. Her hair falls in wisps around her face, and skin is so smooth and brilliantly pale. She looks almost innocent, even after what they just did.

His Rory.

She's not really his, but it feels like it. She was, once, and maybe that's all that matters.

She turns, opening her eyes to look at him. He's a bit surprised, he had thought she was asleep. Her eyes are searching him, and he sees she's lost. She looks broken, and he wonders what happened in the time they were spent apart, who had made her like this. Maybe it was him. No, probably was.

"What are you doing?" He whispers softly, like if he spoke too loudly something would be broken.

"Trying to see if I love you," she replies, honestly. The words cut him deep like a knife, and he knows they shouldn't, because he knows she doesn't love him, even if she doesn't know.

"You don't." His voice is hoarse, and it's cracking. The sound barely comes out. It's killing him to speak.

"You don't know me." He sighs, maybe she's right, but he doubts it. She's always right, but there's a first time for everything.

She turns away from him, and rolls out of his touch. He closes his eyes. Always a screw up. Gently, he moves towards her, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her tenderly on her jaw line. At first, she tenses up, as to get him to leave, but gradually relaxes, pressing herself against him.

He'd missed her so mush. It was so...up and down, but it was feeling, and that was a step up.


	4. He helped her pass her time

_Pt. 4—He helped her pass her time._

And yet, she stayed.

Frankly, even she was shocked. This was the last place she expected herself to be. She's a Yale student, for goodness sake. Yale students don't just run off with their ex boyfriend (was that even what he was anymore? She wasn't sure what to call him.) with no call, no notice, to anyone.

Yet, she's been here for a week now, and the only contact she's had with her mother is a message on her answering machining, telling her she'd be busy for awhile, and might not be able to check in. She hasn't been back to Yale, talked to Lane, Paris, Dean, anyone. She hasn't left Jess's apartment, mainly because she hasn't wanted to.

Jess has to go to work every night (pay the bills, he supports himself now, how responsible.) so she's left alone. The apartment's quiet then, not that it's all too noisy when he's around, but it's truly silent when he's gone. She doesn't bother to fill the void, she just lays on his bed, lights off, eyes slammed shut. She just sleeps, because there's nothing else to do, nothing else she wants to do. She's not happy, but she's not completely sure she's sad. She's tired of these feelings, because they keep on coming and they don't give her room to breathe. She just lays around, a complete waste of space, and she likes it. She's never felt like this before, she's always been told to do something. Jess never makes her do anything.

Every night, she hears Jess come in, trying to be quiet, but the creak of the floorboards always wakes her up. He always comes to the bedroom first, seeing if she's still there, she presumes. She sees him as he leaves every night, studying her intently as if he'll never see her again. And as he comes in late at night, he sees her lying on his bed, and she hears his sharp intake of breath, relieved that she hasn't been taken away from him, surprised that she'd think him worth it to stay.

She's still not sure he is. Worth it, that is. He did nothing but put her through pain when they were together, and while they were apart, for that matter. It was a punch to the gut when he wasn't around, and she could breathe when he was.

She had so much going for her, so much potential. She was going to be Christiane Amanpour. That was what she wanted, to get away from Stars Hollow, see the world. And then she met him, and he was this whole other world...

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Tonight is like every other night. She lies there, on his bed, comforted by blanket of darkness. But it's different, because this time, she can't take it. She just cries. She's been wanting to do this for the past year, but she couldn't find the strength to let it out.

She cries, big open sobs, turning on the faucet and not knowing how to turn it off again. She cries for the past year, that wasted time she spent, trying to convince herself she was okay, that she was back to her old self, the 15 year old who had never been kissed. (Briefly, she blames Dean for starting this all, but it's not his fault, not really. She didn't have to go along with him.) She cries for her 18-year-old self, wondering helplessly how she could have driven Jess to leave her, for herself last spring, telling him she didn't love him, didn't want to be with him, even though she didn't mean it, not really. And of course, she cries for whatever possessed her to come here and actually be with him.

This was painful, this...whatever it was. Love, probably, every sad story had said it hurt. But then again, she had always chosen to believe those were just stories.

She's crying hard enough that she doesn't hear him come in. He comes silently, lying next her and putting his arms around her from behind, and she acts like she doesn't notice, she just keeps on crying.

He's probably thinking she regrets this, him. She's not sure yet if she does or not. It's a scary thing, not knowing, but slightly liberating. She's never done this before, never felt shaky ground. She's feeling defiant, leaving all that's expected of her for uncertainties. She's never rebelled before, not until he came along, and never to the extent of leaving everything she knows to be with him (ever the uncertainty).

She should hate him for bringing this out in her, but she loves this feeling. She thinks she loves him too.

Her sobs quiet down, and she turns to face him. Her face is solemn, and he looks worried. Without a word, she wraps her arms around his neck. She's staring intently in his eyes, and she can tell he doesn't know what to say or do. She'll make it easy on him.

"Tell me the truth," she says, voice steady.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he says, and his calm. He's come to expect this from her, this searching.

"I don't care what you say, as long as it's true." He pulls her even closer, so his face is buried in a mass of her brown strands.

"I love you," he whispers, his voice hoarse, but the words come out easily. "You're so damn beautiful. I love you."

She could swear her heart has stopped beating. She's finding it harder to breathe, and she wants to slap him for lying to her, even though she knows he's not.

He loves her.

He fucking loves her, and he means it!

She doesn't even know if she hates him or not, let alone _love_ him. Love is such a dangerous word, you never know where it's real, but he says it and she's shaking. She knows he means it, and she hates him for meaning it, but she can't hate him.

He loves her, and she can't tell up from down.

She doesn't know what else to say, so she kisses him slowly. He reciprocates, gently.

ooo

A few more days pass by, and nothing happens.

During the day, they're together, and it's almost blissful. She wakes up next to him, and his arms feel so warm and secure, fastened around her waist. He smiles when he sees her in the morning, breathing in her scent. He looks happy, and she doesn't think she ever saw him like this before.

It almost hurts to see him happy. She's still not sure she's doing the right thing.

Sure, she's happy enough. She's dreamed about this, him being next her every night, knowing he'll still be there in the morning. She's smiled plenty and every touch brings that shock that comes at the beginning of a relationship. (But this isn't new, it feels so old.)

Her cooks for her, and she good-naturedly whines about him not letting her cook. He teases her back, saying he would never trust Rory Gilmore to touch an oven. Once, she gets him to cave, but she burns the toast, so now they joke about that.

It's all too easy, but she thinks that maybe it should be hard, maybe it's too easy. Senior year is always looming over their heads, threatening to screw everything up.

Sure, they've talked, but it was a short talk. Neither wanted to get into it. 'Sorry's were exchanged, and that's that.

Maybe it was enough. Right now, she's sitting on the couch, and he's at the opposite end. Her feet are on his lap, and they're trying to read, but she knows it's only a matter of time before he decides to tickle her. She'll squeal loudly, trying to get out of his grasp, and they'll end up on a pile on the floor. Eventually, it'll lead to sex. And she likes it like this, because at times like these, she can't even think about her mom, or Yale, it just feels right.

But then he says he loves her and she doesn't know how to say it back. She knows he's aware she hasn't said it, and loves him, hates him, for not caring.

She sighs, flipping the page in her book. She feels his fingers along the bottoms of her feet, and looks up. He's smirking devilishly, and she can't help but smile.

And she wonders why she can't always feel like this.


	5. He had a vision of seeing things straigh...

**AN: Sorry this took awhile, I had a hard time getting into it. And...there's one dream sequence in this chapter.**

**Pt. 5-- He had a vision of seeing things straight**

Everything is black around him. He can't see a thing, and he is scared senseless. He can't ever remember being this scared, but he can't see, and he's alone. He can't find her anywhere, anywhere! He calls her name frantically, searching, but to no avail.

She is gone.

Suddenly, he hears a dull tone in the distance, the ticking of one of those large grandfather clocks. The sound grows louder and louder with each passing second, and it's making his head pound. He would scream, maybe, but his head hurts so much he can't think straight enough, and it's not really his style to scream.

Besides, she's gone. Not here. Never coming back. There's nothing worth screaming for.

The pain builds up, but he doesn't really care, because he's just sitting here, waiting for his time to run out.

That was always his worse enemy.

Time.

And now it had taken her, and he doesn't know what to do with himself, so he thinks he'll do nothing at all.

ooo

Jess woke up suddenly, panicked. His eyes are still shut, he's almost afraid to open them.

What if she really wasn't there?

He wills himself to stop being such a wuss and opens his eyes slowly, turning on his side. Softly, he breathes an involuntary sigh of relief.

Rory lies beside him, sleeping deeply. She is facing him, and he takes in her slumbering form. She seems almost innocent, angelic. Her skin is porcelain, seeming even more fragile and milky white in the dim light from the moonlight streaming through the solitary window. Her chocolate strands are strewn haphazardly against the pillow, several linger against her bare shoulder.

She is beautiful.

He has thought that sentence so many times that he's lost count, but he never tires of it. Beautiful, beautiful. And his, he's made her his.

If it weren't for those dreams (nightmares, really) plaguing his night, he might actually believe that she would belong to him forever.

Absently he thinks that maybe she doesn't belong to him, maybe she never has. It's probably the other way around; she owns him. It's completely clichéd, but she's taken his heart and soul, and he isn't about to make her give them back. He likes it like this, his breath labored just watching her sleep, so perfect and delicate.

He's flying, fucking _flying_. If she left, he'd fall and hit the ground hard, but he doesn't care, because she's here know, lying beside him naked and exposed, more vulnerable than she's ever let herself be with him. He's vulnerable too, he never gets like this, emotions worn on his sleeve. But she smiles and he melts, and he hates it, but loves it. He's never felt like this before, and it's scary. He's shaking every time she comes too close, but he gets over it, because he wants her, and he doesn't want to know what will happen if doesn't let himself have her.

Slowly, he moves a hand out a slides his finger gently to trace the outline of her collarbone. The skin is delicate underneath his own, and he holds his breath without realizing it, as if the slightest noise would disturb her. Her skin is too smooth, too tempting. He moves to place his lips gingerly on her jaw line, and leaves a trail of kisses as he tastes her, sweet and tempting.

She stirs a bit, and freezes. He hadn't wanted to wake her. He liked watching her sleep. Slowly, her eyes open, and a smile slowly plays on her lips as her eyes focus a bit and she makes out the outline of his face in the dark. She moves in and kisses him slowly.

"What are you doing?" she asks drowsily, not quite awake.

"Watching you sleep," he replies in a whisper, and she blushes, deep enough for him to see in scarcely lit room. He smirks a bit, loving how childlike she seems.

"Isn't it boring?" she asks, wrinkling her nose.

"Never," he whispers huskily, and he sees a split second look of realization on her face, and knows she gets the double meaning. Sighing, she snuggles in closer, and he pulls her against him, her head resting on his neck. He shuts his eyes and breathes in the scent of her hair (soft lavender) as he drifts back to sleep.

ooo

Sitting on the couch, reading his paperback, he can hear Rory's giggle from the kitchen. It is a glorious noise.

It's been such a long time since he's heard that sound escape her lips, and of course, he blames himself fully. She cries so often now, for no reason at all, it seems, and he's worried about her. He can't help but think she'd be better off without him, happier without him.

Happier with someone she loves.

He tries to shake that last thought, but it's been bothering him for days now. He swore he didn't care if she loved him back, as long as he could see her, touch her, know that she was, indeed, real. But lately, he wonders if it's worth it to put himself on the line like this. He's been shot down a few too many times by this love, and he's not too sure he'll survive another blow.

He's discovered it's hard to be happy when she seems so depressed. It seems that he's constantly worried about her, and the fear of her leaving is always in the dark recesses of his mind. She cries all the time, and when she's not crying, she stares blankly out the window, looking so lost and innocent. He desperately wants to read her mind, to rush over to her and tell her it'll all be okay, but he can't. He's not so sure it'll be okay, and with them, it most likely won't be. So he stands behind her and watches, motionlessly, helplessly.

But now, for the first time in days, she's laughing, and she sounds truly happy. He smiles to himself. He loves her so much in that moment.

She walks out towards him, smiling brilliantly. He smirks at her, setting down his book as she slides onto his lap. She bounces around, grabbing his hands and entwining her fingers with his.

"I just had my first pleasant conversation with my mother in a month and a half," she says, cheerfully. "And it wasn't just civil, it was actually pleasant! I think she's starting to come to terms with this. Not exactly approving of it," she frowns, pausing for a moment. "But that doesn't matter. I'm here anyway."

Yes, she is. He wonders for a moment if she had to say it to believe it, if she really didn't want to be here, but quickly dismisses that thought.

"Good, I'm glad," he says, smiling at her. (He wonders if she gets the double meaning.) She's gorgeous in this light, sunlight streaming in from the windows, highlighting her face, loose strands of hair falling out of their ponytail and landing every which-way.

She smiles softly, and leans in to kiss him. He reciprocates gladly, and deepens the kiss. She pushes him back, so he's now lying on the couch, and she's on top of him. He breaks away from her lips, and just stares at her. She stares back for a moment, and if he didn't know better, he could swear he heard her breath skip. After a slight moment, she grins a stunning grin.

"I'm happy, Jess," she sighs, and rolls over, flopping down next to him. He pulls her closer, her head resting on his shoulder, and kisses the top of her head.

"Me too," he says softly.

He wonders if he really means it.


	6. She had the heart of a liar

**AN: Sorry for such a long wait. I got caught up with school and finals, and whatnot. Again, so sorry.**

**Pt.6-- She had the heart of a liar...**

Rory Gilmore is four years old again. Pigtails and all, she skips happily along the streets of Stars Hollow. Everywhere on the street, she runs into people she knows, has known for as far back as she can remember, greeting her cheerily. Patty reminds her that she is to be the star of the ballet show next week, Taylor informs her that she is to sit on a float at the parade for the something or other festival. She nods pleasantly at them and continues along her way.

She bursts into the Independence Inn, grinning magnificently. She spots her mother at the front desk, her back turned away from the door, speaking on the phone. Rory runs towards her, screaming the word 'mommy' repeatedly. Lorelai slowly puts the phone down and spins around slowly to face her daughter. A smile spreads across her face, and she holds her arms out expectantly, Rory running into them readily.

Held in her mother's tight embrace, Rory still feels an emptiness welling up in her chest. It's growing larger now, and she can hardly breathe. She breaks free and runs back out the door, sprinting down the streets. Her mother is calling her name, but she can hardly hear her. All she knows is she has to find him, and she has to run fast.

She comes to a halting stop at Luke's diner, flinging the door open and skidding along the floor. She's making a spectacle, but that doesn't matter, really.

"Luke!" She screams, trailing him around the diner. He dodges her, trying not to drop the plates he holds in his hands. "Where's Jess? I need to find Jess!" She's panting and frantic now, but nobody seems to take notice.

"Jess who?" Luke replies distractedly, and Rory feels as if she may cry. Her heart is breaking now, and she's growing older by the minute; it's all too much for her to handle. Luke doesn't notice, because he's busy, too busy, and that's when she knows she has to get out.

So she does, out of Luke's and into the streets. Stars Hollow is empty now, yet laden with shadows, and she's fully grown but frightened like a small child. Where is he? Where could he be? She keeps on running, because that's all that she can think to do. The steady pounding of her feet hitting the pavement is a strange comfort to her, and it's all that keeps her from bursting into tears.

She hits the bridge and stops. There he is. She walks toward him slowly, strangely in no hurry now that she can see his face, trying to catch her breath, which is coming out ragged and unevenly. She reaches out to touch him, but he stops her, taking her hand and gently placing it back down by her side. And then he speaks.

"Take me or leave me, Rory. I can't keep doing this." His voice is unnervingly calm.

She looks down at her shoes, confused. She opens her mouth to ask what he means, but she doesn't get the chance.

He is gone.

All that's left is a memory and the feeling that he is embedded in her very skin and soul.

ooo

Rory wakes suddenly, her eyes snapping open. She feels something sliding down her cheek. She reaches her hand out to graze the skin and finds that it is wet. She licks the tips of her fingers, a salty taste flooding her mouth. Again, she has been crying, this time in her sleep.

This does not surprise her, but she is a little alarmed. She never used to cry, only in special circumstances. It seems like every event since her senior year has been a special circumstance.

She's broken and tainted now. She's in the fragile process of a breakdown, and she can feel her pieces crashing down to the floor. (Slowly, they fall, and she thinks that maybe it hurts more this way.)

She can't pinpoint the moment she knew she was falling apart. Maybe when he said he'd call, and she knew he wouldn't. (What was a promise, anyhow?) Maybe the moment she knew she may have loved him, and her heart sank down so far, because she knew then that love wasn't all candy and roses. Maybe it was when she realized he was gone, or maybe when she knew it was impossible for him to leave for good.

It doesn't really matter when it happened. All that matters is that her innocence is gone, and Jess is to blame. (Isn't he always? Everyone knew he was trouble, except naïve little Rory.)

She has the hardest time blaming him when he's lying next to her like this. He's naked and beautiful; raw and exposed. She can see all his scars; they cut much deeper than her own. She rather likes him like this, loving and ready for her. (Though at times, it breaks her heart.) He's comfort now, but not a safety net like Dean was, only there to fall back on.

She moves closer to him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. His skin is smooth and cool and perfect. She lets her eyes flutter shut gently, and an involuntary sigh escapes her lips, while she silently wishes for a hundred moments like this. It's so uncomplicated, a moment where they can just be and be left alone.

She knows it's unrealistic, wanting to be constantly left alone, only sitting blissfully in that far away concept of forever.

She moves her hand to gently grab his, feeling his fingers encompass her own. He does not wake, and it is so silent she can hear him breathe.

This is what she wants, this moment, always.

She knows it's not possible. The sun will come up, a new day will begin, and something will happen that forces them to make a choice. That's how it always goes.

She just wishes that when the time comes, they can choose each other. (She knows this isn't possible either, but she likes to think that the past doesn't have a say in the future.)

She opens her eyes again slowly, and places a soft kiss on his shoulder. Quietly, so as not to disturb him, she slides out of the bed, glancing back at him as she stands up.

He almost looks peaceful, or as peaceful as Jess gets. When she first came here, she used to wake in the middle of the night and just stare at him, trying to comprehend that she was really lying next to him. He had looked so guarded, even in his sleep, and she wondered how he got that way.

But now, he looks almost content. She smiles sadly and thinks that she has never seen him more beautiful.

Soundlessly, she exits the bedroom, wandering around the apartment. She grabs at his old t-shirt she's wearing, trying to smooth out the rumples. It's much too big for her, but she likes it all the same. It smells like him, like cigarettes and soft leather.

She pauses in front of kitchen window, the only one with a decent view of the city. It's so big, so big. And the ground is so far below, she's getting dizzy looking down.

She turns away, hugging herself tightly. She doesn't belong here.

She takes a deep breath and moves toward the phone. She needs to talk to someone, and Lorelai, no matter how strained their relationship has been as of late, has always been the constant source of comfort.

The phone rings a few times, and Rory's almost ready to give up when a groggy voice comes on the line.

"H'llo?"

"Mommy?" she says, and it barely comes out as a whisper.

"Rory? Rory, honey, what's wrong? It's so late." Rory glances at the clock and realizes it's three in the morning.

"Nothing's wrong, I just…I…I had a bad dream." There's a pause, so she continues. "I just needed to talk to you."

"Oh, Rory." Rory frowns. "Babe, you're grown up now. As much as I hate to admit it, you're an adult."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You're an adult, you have to make your own decisions for your own problems. You can't come running to me every time you have a nightmare."

"Mom…" Her voice cracks, and she thinks she may start crying again.

"No, Rory. You left. You ran off to the city with Jess and cut off all contact with me for weeks. You made a choice, Rory. You have to figure things out from here."

"Mom," she starts again, but pauses. It stings, but she knows her mother's right. "I don't know what I want."

"You have to figure that out on your own." Lorelai's voice was soft and sympathetic. "You have to decide what it's worth. I can't help you, Rory."

"I know," she whispers back. "Mom, I have to…I think I need to go." She doesn't give Lorelai time to reply, but hangs up quickly. She covers her mouth as she sobs, holding back gasps. She leans against the wall and collapses in a slump.

She has to make a choice. She's always been bad at deciding the things that count the most.

She catches her breath and wipes away a few tears. Shaking still, she makes her way back to bed.

She slips in beside him as quietly as she left. He stirs slightly, moving his arm around her. She smiles weakly, sadly.

_Take him or leave him._

She didn't know which would break her worse.


	7. It's a cruel world, but she's got a hold...

**AN: Technically, this is the last chapter. But there will be an epilogue. A short epilouge, but an epilogue, all the same. Thanks guys, for all the reviews. I still can't believe how much support this story has gotten**.

**Pt. 7--It's a cruel world, but she's got a hold on**

It always has to end this way.

They are standing out side of his apartment. The sky is clouded heavily and he thinks absently that maybe it should be raining. She wishes it would, so if she does cry, he wouldn't be able to tell. If he saw her crying, he would try to comfort her, and that would just make everything so much harder than it already was. And it was already damn hard enough.

Her car is parked beside them, her bags strewn on the sidewalk around them. She leans against the car door, closes her eyes and breathes in deeply. Concentrate on inhaling and exhaling. In, out, in, out. Keep to a steady rhythm and we'll all be okay. Maybe then the world will stop spinning around her.

_This is too much, too hard, and she isn't sure about any of it. _

Jess stares at her for a moment. He moves to pick up her bags, he needs something to do with his hands before the urge to grab her and pull her back inside becomes too strong. He tosses them into the trunk of her car, feeling numb as he does so. Shouldn't this hurt more? Maybe this hurts too much. Maybe he's grown so used to pain, he doesn't even notice it. He wonders if she hurts, glancing at her in the corner of his eye. One look at her, and he knows.

_This is the hardest thing she's ever done. And he can't do a thing to fix it. _

He slams the lid of the trunk shut, more forcefully than he intended. The noise it makes causes her to jump slightly and open her eyes quickly. She catches his eyes in hers. She instantly wants to pull away, make the pain a little less strong, but he's got a strong grip on her, this one, even when he's not touching her.

_There's no way she can go through with this. (But that's just wishful thinking.)_

They move closer towards each other, and they know that this is it. Goodbye.

The word feels heavy in her thoughts. She's been thinking about it, about this, for days now, mulling it over, and it hasn't settled with her very well. It feels too harsh, too final. But it is what it is, and it will have to do.

_Goodbye. _

Neither of them wants to say the word (that vile word), neither really wants to say anything. If a thought is spoken, it is shared, out there for everyone to taste. It becomes almost real. Safe in the recesses of the mind, one can pretend it doesn't exist.

_Time to stop playing pretend._

He's braver than her (or maybe he's not, maybe he just wants this to be done, get the hard part over with), and speaks first.

"So…"he trails off, not really knowing how to start, but he hates the silence.

"Yeah." She breathes. She's clueless too, and it doesn't really help the situation.

"This is it, huh?"

"Don't say it like that," she wrinkles her nose.

"Like what?"

"This is it. It's too final."

"I think it fits." His eyes are solemn, sad. She silently curses him for being right, for now, she's fighting back tears.

"It doesn't have to be, you know. Final." She's pleading with him now, but she knows it's fruitless. He says nothing, because there's no use in saying anything. She knows what this is, he knows what this is.

This is her making a choice. It had to be done, and it had to be this, this ending. The realization had hit him hard, and it still hurts. He sighs, drawing his breath out slowly. He moves towards her, pulling her near him. She buries her head into his chest, and he strokes her hair gently.

"I'm scared, Jess," she whispers softly, and he swears he heard her voice crack. Shit. He begs her silently not to break down. He doesn't think he can't hold her up this time, not when he's so close to falling apart himself.

"You shouldn't be. You have to do this, Rory." His voice comes out almost strong; he's surprised at how sure he sounds.

"How do you know? How do you know that this is the right choice? Maybe it's not, maybe I'm supposed to stay here with you. You said it yourself, you said we're supposed to be together! What if we are, and I leave? This could be completely wrong."

"It's not, Rory. If we're supposed to be together, then we'll be together when it's time. It's not time, and you know that. You have to go back. You have to be a journalist; you have to go to Yale. You can't throw away everything you've planned for me, Rory. I can't hold you back."

"I just don't want any regrets."

"You'll have more if you stay."

"I know," she replies. They just stand there for a moment, silent, drinking it all in. The sky grows heavier, and a few droplets fall. She can feel one hit her shoulder, but she hardly notices. People are walking all around them, some pausing just long enough to give them a strange glance, but it doesn't matter, nothing matters.

And then they come. The tears she's been holding back for who knows how long come pouring out, a steady salty flow. Jess's shirt is getting wet, but he just holds her tighter, wishing there was something he could do, knowing there's nothing. He hates seeing her cry. He always feels so helpless, and he has to fix it, has to fix her, only he can't, not this time. He's breaking himself; perhaps he's already broken. It hurts to know she has to go, hurts to know he can't hold her anymore.

But he knew it was coming. He should have been more prepared.

But really, how could he prepare himself for this? He had taught himself a long time ago not to get attached to anyone, and since then, it had saved him a lot of pain. But with Rory…he didn't know how it happened, but she roped him in, and here he was. Hurt.

He thinks that maybe the hurt is worth even the short while he had her.

Finally, her sobs slow, and she's trying to catch her breath. He rubs her back in gentle circles as she calms. She pulls away a bit and stares at him, her face tear stained. They lock eyes, and she breaks the silence.

"I love you," she says, softly, but strong and sure. She's never looked so bright and sweet, even with her eyes red and face wet. He stares at her a moment, and pulls her back to him, kissing the top of her forehead.

"I know." And he does know, somehow. She feels relieved, knowing that this is what she needed to do all along.

She pulls away again, this time, walking towards her car. She's about to open her door, when she feels his hand tugging at her elbow. She turns to face him, and he steps forward, moving in to kiss her. At first, she's scared. She's not sure what a last kiss is supposed to feel like. But he kisses her, gently, tenderly, and she receives it gladly. The kiss deepens, and she is pushed back into her car. The door handle is pressing into her back, but she doesn't really care. She's running her hands through his hair, trying memorize every aspect of him, so at least she'll have something for always.

Then she concentrates on the kiss itself, its taste. It tastes stronger than what she's used to, all the flavors that are Jess mingling together and hitting her hard. It tastes bitter, no, bittersweet. It tastes like a goodbye.

They both pull away, resting their foreheads against the other's. Their hands entwine one last time, gripping on tightly. They both breathe heavily. They know what has to happen.

"So, you'll call?" She says, and they both feel an uneasy sense of déjà vu.

"I'll call," he whispers. He won't, they both know. She won't either. It's okay.

She drops his hands and turns away, gets in the car. She looks at him one more time, studying him.

And then it comes.

"Goodbye, Jess."

'Goodbye, Rory."

With four words, they both crash, pieces breaking and scattering everywhere. But there's no turning back now. She closes her door, starts the car, and she's gone.

This is how it had to be.

Jess goes back into his building. He climbs the stairs, opens the door to his apartment, and flops into a chair. He feels nothing, and everything. He's not sure; he doesn't want to think about it, really. He'd rather not think at all.

He picks up a book that was lying next to him on the floor, and begins studying the cover. He smirks when he sees the title.

_Howl_.

ooo

A few hours later, Rory drives past an all too cheery 'Welcome to Stars Hollow' sign. She circles the town, before pulling into her mom's driveway.

The town was all the same. It always was. No matter how much she changed, it was still here, unwavering. And a part of her was stuck with it.

She smiled for the first time all day.

And they both knew one thing.

_They'd be okay. _


	8. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, just the ideas in my pretty little head. All the chapter titles have come from Dashboard Confessional's 'Hold On'.**

**AN: I really wish I could take the time to thank all of my reviewers individually. You all rock so, so much. Thank you to all of you who have stuck by this story and encouraged me. Thanks you for all the support, it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.**

**Epilouge (A Time For Us)**

To fit something into a mold, it is entirely important that you do push, pull, or distort it in any way. If something is supposed to be, you shouldn't have twist it, mangle it beyond recognition, it will be on it's own.

Some things just need time to grow, to fit the mold, no need to force them in. In the end, everything will find its place. If doesn't, well, that's not much of an ending, is it?

ooo

Cut to June of 2006.

Luke and Lorelai are getting married. Rory is the maid of honor, Jess stands in the back, hoping to pass inconspicuously. (No such luck, of course, they are in Stars Hollow, after all.)

She meets him after the ceremony, off to the side of the reception. Jess is nervous, all of sudden, realizing his surroundings. A wedding, lush greenery, and a kiss that went by to fast.

Damn those memories, damn her.

Initial nervousness aside, they are able to talk quite easily. They agree to be friends, and begin to update each other on the past few years of their lives. Jess is working at an independent bookstore now, Rory is interning at a paper in Hartford.

Rory has a new boyfriend. Logan. Jess has always hated that name.

Jess has met a girl, Alyssa. Rory feels a wave of relief as he explains it was nothing serious (yet), and she isn't sure why.

ooo

Two years pass, and Rory is offered a job in New York. She calls Jess, sounding euphoric. He congratulates her, and they meet up for a celebratory dinner in the city.

A few weeks later, he's helping her move her things into a new apartment. She complains about having to lug the heavy boxes up the stairs, since the elevator is closed for repairs. Jess gently teases her about her strength, and mockingly lifts up with ease a box that she had dropped in surrender. ('It's fighting against me!' she had exclaimed.)

ooo

A year later, and he answers his phone groggily one night, only to hear her voice shaking on the other end. She got into a fight with Logan, she explains, and he can hear her choked back tears. Damn him for making her cry. (Though he knows he's done that many a time.) Logan had left, and now she's by herself at the restaurant. She says she feels like a child, but she's never felt comfortable walking by herself at night in this city, and won't he come pick her up?

He rushes to her rescue, of course. (Funny image, that, him playing a hero.) She thanks him profusely, and he awkwardly waves it off as nothing.

The next night, she's dragged him to her apartment for a 'wallow fest'. Jess had had a bad string of luck considering girls, and she insisted he wallow with her.

Not that Jess would ever wallow. He came simply to mock the horrible selection of chick flicks Rory had rented.

So Jess mocked, Rory scolded. Massive amounts of junk food were consumed, except the portion of the popcorn Jess had designated for throwing at the television when the sappy scenes were especially unbearable.

Rory fell asleep that night with her head against Jess's shoulder, smiling.

ooo

They had decided on a designated movie night, once a week. They were at Jess's apartment, which meant Rory had picked the movies. Which, tonight, meant Jess was watching Willy Wonka. Again.

He had tickled her down to the floor in an attempt to stop her from singing along with the movie.

Suddenly, he stopped, and she grinned up at him brilliantly. Her smile was beautiful.

Then he realized that he was lying on top of her, pinning her down to the floor. His mind went into panic drive, and he began to get up.

She pulled him back down.

He stared at her curiously for a moment, but she wasn't done shocking him. She pulled him into a kiss, short, sweet, and tender. She pulled away, smiling sheepishly. Without thinking, he kisses her back. This time it's drawn out, trying to make up for lost time. He cups her face in his hands, and she runs her finger tips down his neck. She feels him shiver, and she feels powerful. He hears her utter a soft moan, and he wonders how he of all people could affect her like that.

The break away from the kiss, and Jess rolls to lie beside her on the floor. She rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes as he runs his fingers through her hair.

"Jess," she asks, " Is it our time yet?"

"Yeah," he responses, his voice cracking slightly. "Yeah, I think it is."

"Oh," she replies. "That's good."

He smirks, kissing her lightly on the forehead.

They're both at the same place now, and they rather like it there.

END.

**Yep. That's the end. It's been a fun ride, kids. I may, possibly have something in conjunction with this story, coming soon. Maybe. We'll see. **

**Please tell me what you liked, what you hated. If you don't tell me, I'll never know!**


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